


Tartan Blue

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Kilts, M/M, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which James wears a kilt, and Michael is partial to Scottish weddings in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tartan Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Luninosity said there should be more kilt!fic in this fandom, and suddenly this happened. :) Many thanks to Capricornucopia for beta!

"More of your old school mates should get hitched," Michael says. "I like Scottish weddings."

"Do you now?" James pauses on the stairs ahead of Michael, eyeing him over his shoulder. The lift is out. Michael feels responsible since he chose the hotel, but James has shown no signs of minding, and Michael certainly doesn’t at the moment while following James. If he lags far enough behind, he gets a birds-eye view of James’ strong calves, and - when James is at just the right point in the move from one step to another, and the fabric of his kilt shifts just so - a shadowy glimpse of the back of his thighs.

"Yes," Michael says. It's easy to be shameless about enjoying the view, and it's honest, too. "Yes, I do."

"Right," James says, "noted,” then puts on a burst of speed that forces Michael to chase him a bit, but only for a bit, because Michael's long legs were made for taking the stairs three at a time. He's practically required after that to back James up against the wall at the landing for their floor and claim his victory kiss.

They've been close to each other all day, pressed shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee at the church, arm in arm at the reception, but nothing like _this_. It's a good thing the stairwell is an enclosed one - they'll hear a door slam if anyone enters - because the kiss quickly becomes more involved than Michael had intended. He's had all day to feel James' warmth, both the quiet kind that seeps into Michael's bones when his body is near and the free, bright kind that James gives away with his smiles and the light from his eyes. He's had all day to think, because it's been the sort of day when a person either finds himself thinking about things like love and commitment and the future, or very resolutely doesn't. He just hasn't had time - not quite enough time - to find _words_.

Drawing slowly on James' lower lip, Michael cups James' face in his hands, rubbing his cheeks with his thumbs. That's a language, too, and the soft sound James makes suggests he appreciates Michael's efforts.

He's too easily satisfied sometimes, Michael thinks. He wants to tell James that for his own good; he wants him to never realise it, ever.

Michael lowers his hands to James' shoulders and slides them down his back. James had kept a bag in the rental car and changed some of his clothes between the mass and the reception, but not all. His dress shoes and white socks had been traded for boots and scrunched down grey ones, the kilt had mercifully remained, and his formal shirt and jacket had been replaced by a fine-ribbed blue jumper that's a delight to touch. It may be a distraction Michael is deliberately creating for himself, but nonetheless he's fascinated at the moment with the way the hem of that jumper tucks beneath James' waistband in such a neat line. He wants to follow it down, and so he does; the jumper is long enough on James that Michael's fingertips follow the warm wool for quite a few inches along the upper curve of James’ arse before - Christ - finding the soft skin just beneath.

Michael’s tongue thrusts hard into James' mouth at this discovery, and his hips press forward of their own accord. When James begins to laugh against his lips, Michael has to break away, but only slightly. "You’re the very best sort of traditionalist," Michael murmurs.

"That’s how you like me,’’ James says. "Although maybe we should’ve waited ‘til our room -"

Michael follows his eyes down and snorts at the unmistakable way the fabric is jutting out just below James’ waist. "I thought that’s what this was for," he says, hefting James’ sporran.

"Well, yes, but someone shoved it aside, didn’t he?”

"Ah, so it's my error, is it? I'll have to rectify it then." Michael kisses James again, because James makes such a picture that he can’t not - disheveled, propped against the wall, cheeks red, cock quite clearly interested indeed. Michael dips down the front of James’ kilt this time, flat of his hand against James’ skin, fingers grasping his cock. That gets a lovely gasp from James, so Michael keeps his hand there as he pulls the sporran back to centre. "There," he says, giving James a friendly squeeze before slipping his hand free. "Perfect."

For himself, Michael chooses the less ancient, but still time-honoured fist in the pocket distorting the front of the trousers approach. James regards this with a massive grin. "Looking for your keycard?"

"Exactly. That's exactly what I'm doing, James."

"This is going to be incredibly graceful," James says, pushing off the wall. He takes a step that can only be accurately described as a hobble and bursts out laughing. There's nothing for it after that, Michael's laughing too, even though they should be striving to be as quiet as possible - their only real hope is that the corridors will be empty and _stay_ empty at this hour. But Michael isn't truly bothered one way or another if James isn't bothered. They're in this together.

Luckily, they do indeed make it to the room without incident, and Michael draws the keycard from his pocket with a flourish that makes James snort. There's a soft click, and the door whispers open. Michael gives some thought to the dimmer switch on the wall, adjusting it until the light from the bedside lamps is just right.

Michael likes to choose unique hotels when he can - he’s stayed in enough bland, serviceable rooms whilst filming to last a lifetime - and though the lift may not have met expectations, the room itself has exceeded them. The floor is panelled in dark walnut, the colour dramatically echoed on one wall by a padded headboard that towers above even Michael’s head. It goes a long way towards making the bed the very picture of decadence - it seems _exactly_ the sort of thing to pin someone up against, or be pinned up against, Michael hasn’t yet decided which he’d prefer - and the cream-coloured coverlet and mounds of pillows in jeweled blues and greens take care of the rest.

"Mood lighting sorted?" James asks. He makes as if to sit on the bed, but Michael grabs his hands and pulls him back to his feet. He'd quite like James standing, and tells him so, punctuating the words with a tongue-flick to James’ ear.

"Hmm," James says. Michael has gone from holding James’ hands to bracketing his waist, and now as he kneels his hands trail downwards, sliding over the scratchy-warm wool covering James’ thighs to curl behind his knees. “Legs may get tired."

"We’ll see," Michael says, and plants a kiss to James’ calf, just above the cuff of his sock. He knows what it really means: James gets a little off-kilter if he’s exclusively receiving, so this may not last long. Michael hasn’t entirely worked out why - if it’s that James takes pleasure giving so much, drawing response after response from Michael, that he can’t truly enjoy himself without it, or if James is, at a very deep level, uncomfortable with being the centre of attention. Never in front of a camera, but when it’s quiet, when it’s personal, when it counts.

Best not to waste any time.

"Get rid of that, will you?" Michael says, nodding at the sporran, because braining himself on it is about to become a real possibility. James does, snapping the clasp on the chain and throwing the sporran onto the bed. James isn't as hard as he had been, but there's a still a very visible, very promising bulge, and Michael is far from disappointed at that. He loves - _loves_ \- feeling a cock fill, gets a rush from every pulse and twitch, and he's more than ready to feel that rush of James' blood. He leans in, rubbing first with his cheek and then with his mouth, nuzzling open-lipped until James’ cock gives a satisfying jump.

Michael doesn’t let up. His own blood is pounding, a low, deep pulse that he intends to ride out until he’s done with James. Shakily, James pulls in deep breath, and Michael keeps working with his mouth, his hands. There's something base about that, something perfect, a stiff cock so obviously distorting clothing, a man dressed for the public eye but with a need that can't be hidden.

James' hands are buried in Michael’s hair now. It’s not control with him, Michael knows, but a simple need to touch. Michael turns his head to kiss James’ wrist as he pulls away, a note of apology in it for any discomfort James might be feeling, but also of promise; one thing that can make James forget himself is laughter, and Michael is probably about to look hilarious from James’ point of view.

He presses another kiss to James’ calf, and a swift one to the side of his knee - no lingering about and giving James time to remember he’s ticklish. Then Michael is under the edge of James’ kilt, finally, where he’s wanted to be pretty much all day. James, as predicted, begins choking with laughter immediately at the sight of his head bobbing around under there, and Michael squeezes his leg in mock reproof.

Michael pauses, memorising details: it’s dark, but not entirely so, and the light that filters through is shaded the blue and green of James’ tartan. Which, now that Michael thinks about it, will look wonderful discarded amongst the pillows - he certainly hadn’t planned that, the colour of the linens is a happy accident, but now it’s something to look forward to. There’s a silk lining under here, which Michael hadn’t realised or expected, but it makes a lot of sense. No wonder James is willing to go around in this all day without anything underneath. Michael's got pride in his heritage too, but going around with wool scratching at his cock for eight hours is not something he'd be willing to do to show it. Sort of nice to see they're on the same page there.

James pats at his head, then slides his hands down to grasp Michael’s shoulders where they’re covered by the kilt. Michael cups the back of James’ thighs and presses his nose to the hollow between them. It’s so warm under here, so private, and the fact that there’s this curtain between him and James, that James has let Michael cut him off like this from what’s happening to his own body - the thought, the _responsibility_ makes Michael’s breath catch.

Responsibility to James, for James. It's everything Michael wants.

Michael inches upwards, dragging lips over skin, and suddenly the warm, soft weight of James' balls is resting on his forehead. Michael pauses, just enjoying the sensation for a moment, before tilting his head and touching his lips to one after the other. James' nails dig into his shoulders; thus encouraged, Michael blows over them softly before touching them again, this time with the tip of his tongue.

James' left knee trembles. Michael slips his hand back down to steady James there as he turns the attentions of his mouth to the base of James' cock. He moves along the underside, leaning right to follow the hard curve of it, stopping short a inch from the head. James groans and swats at him, so Michael does it again, this time sliding up over the crest to suck just the tip into his mouth. That pulls a deeper, ragged groan from James, and Michael runs a hand up to squeeze James' arse. What he’d really like to do is give his own cock a nice hard rub, because with that sound from James the pressure in the front of his trousers magnified tenfold, but he daren’t try it. James would notice, and James would be relentless; he wouldn't be happy until he got his hand on Michael, and while Michael does want that, he wants it later. He pulls off James with a pop and James jerks delightfully, cock slapping against Michael's cheek.

If that's not encouraging, Michael doesn't know what is. He starts at the base of the shaft again, moving up slowly, and this time when he reaches the head he draws James in deep to begin working him over properly. He manages four long pulls before cool air suddenly floods his face; folds of cloth are hastily being pushed away. “Can’t have you suffocating under there,” James says, panting. “Imagine the headlines.”

Michael pulls off to get a deep lungful of clear air - James is right, it does feel good - then pushes at James’ hips until he's sitting on the bed, where Michael knows he wants to be. James does like to watch when he's getting close, and Michael can't blame him, because this view is pretty fantastic - the kilt hiked up to James' waist, fabric pooling over his thighs, and James rising up, slick and heavy and _ready_. 

“Mind if I continue?” Michael asks. Just in case James has some silly idea about saying that he does, in fact, mind, because it's time Michael had some attention for a change, Michael curls a hands around James’ shaft, touches his bottom lip to the smooth head, and waits.

“Oh, be my guest,” James says, spreading his legs wider. When Michael takes that opportunity to press closer, he locks his ankles around Michael’s waist.

Michael squeezes once, lips the head, and really gets into it.

James, choking on air, fists his hand in the collar of Michael’s button-down, and after he seems to get in a good deep breath, leans down to wrap his arms around Michael’s shoulders, holding on. The soft knit of James' jumper scratches over Michael's temple as he slides up and down James' cock. He gets a nice steady rhythm going, pumping with his hand in time with the drag of his mouth, and after every third stroke he pauses at the top to press the flat of his tongue against James’ slit.

James' breathing is loud and fast and his fingertips dig into Michael's shoulder blades. He's got his head bent down quite close to Michael's, close enough to play a part in regulating Michael's pace, because speeding up might mean slamming into James' nose. It's like James wants to see, hear, and smell everything that Michael does, and a moment later, he adds _feel_ to the list, as James cups his palm against Michael's cheek. On the next pass, Michael shifts the angle so that James' cock bulges out, pressing into James' own hand, and James smacks Michael’s back with his other hand, his way of asking for more. Michael is obliging, and this time James is ready; he rubs at his cock through Michael's cheek with his thumb. His back arches, and Michael gives a good firm suck just as James begins pushing at his face. When James jerks and comes, it ends up half in Michael's mouth and half everywhere else.

"Can't take you anywhere," Michael says, wiping his mouth and his chin and his cheek on his sleeve. James laughs, collapsing against Michael's neck, and Michael holds him while trying not to be completely obvious about watching James' cock soften and nestle down against the folds of his kilt. 

James doesn’t rest for long. He slides his hands down Michael's chest, popping buttons and pausing to thumb Michael’s nipples through thin cotton. It sends a sharp, spiking rush through him, direct sensation and anticipation combined. James makes a quick job of Michael’s belt and zip, loosening Michael’s trousers on his hips enough to free his increasingly eager cock, but giving that only the briefest of brushes with his fingertips on his way down to Michael's balls.

"What are you thinking?" James asks, lifting gently while his thumb presses promisingly against Michael’s shaft. "Because I know you are."

"Slick up," Michael says, rubbing his palms against James’ thighs, making clear where he means. "That’s what I'm thinking."

“As you wish,”’ James says, cheeky, slipping away from Michael and making for his suitcase. His kilt falls neatly around his waist - a little wrinkled now, yes, but not terribly so, and Michael’s taken with the notion that James could walk out of this room right now and no-one would know what they had just done, what a wrecked mess he is underneath that neat drape of cloth.

Then James turns around, lube in hand, and all right, with those wet spots maybe James couldn’t get by with it in any well-lit rooms, but it’s nice to imagine them trying.

Michael slides out of his trousers and boxer-briefs, knees creaking alarmingly as he stands, then settles down on the bed with his back to that wonderful headboard. James crawls up over him, knees either side of Michael’s thighs, lube in hand, and says, “Wait. Wait. Kilt on or off?’

Michael growls and drags him closer, squeezing James’ hips pointedly through the kilt. “Really, you thought you had to ask?”

James grins at him, unrepentant. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a matter of necessity, no. But sometimes knowing the answer makes the asking all the better.”

Michael bites at that mouth, that smile, sucking James’ lip between his teeth, not letting go until his mouth tingles with the pleasant burn of James’ stubble. Then he draws back and takes the lube from James, hiking up the kilt enough to rub the lube over James’ thighs until they’re slippery and inviting. James steals a little for his palms, in the meantime, and sets to work on Michael’s cock, long firm strokes that leave him twitching when James relaxes his grip.

“Come on then,” James says, pushing farther up onto his knees and guiding Michael’s cock between his legs. He leans into Michael’s chest, bracing his weight on Michael’s shoulders, and that’s perfect, absolutely perfect, because Michael is surrounded by James’ warm weight, the kilt is pooling over his lap, and the only way he can move is to shove his hips forward. He does, thrusting over and over again, and with James squeezing tightly after every stroke things get very good very quickly.

And this is nice: Michael is enough taller than James that he can see over James’ shoulder when he cranes his neck a bit. Michael pulls at James’ kilt so that it’s plastered to his arse, stretched taut over the backs of his thighs, and _yes_ \- Michael’s cock is long enough that on the next thrust he can clearly watch it tent the fabric. The friction is dizzying, starting with the tight, slick passage between James' legs, the brush of silk over the head when his cock pushes through, and then the long, slow drag back that James makes exquisite by clenching his strong thighs.

When James takes to tonguing Michael's nipple in time with Michael's thrusts, it's all over. Michael comes hard, shuddering all the way down his spine, and James bounces a little in his lap - and laughs - as he rides it out. “I'm assuming the back of my kilt is completely ruined?"

Michael peers round James. “Completely,” he assures him.

“Hmm. Well, if you're going to do a thing, do it properly, that’s what they say.” 

“They do indeed,” Michael agrees, as James swings off him and burrows down into the pillows. Looking at him, Michael finds himself unable to say anything more: James makes as perfect a picture here as he did in the stairwell, and not because the pillows complement his kilt, or the warm brown of the headboard his hair, but because he’s what Michael wants to see, anywhere or everywhere.

He’s snapped out of the moment by James, who pulls at him until they’re curled together, sharing a pillow. “Scottish weddings, eh?” James murmurs, mouth close to Michael’s neck.

“Yes. Best kind. Only kind.” They’re words, but they aren’t _enough_ ; Michael swallows, throat dry, and remembers - they’re multilingual, he and James. They _are_. He fumbles for James’ left hand - it takes a moment, it’s buried between them on the bed - and pulls it to his mouth to press a kiss to his finger. Eyes on James’ hand, he whispers, “Something to remember. If you ever felt like asking.”

There’s a silence. Michael can’t see James’ eyes; it’s easier, it’s harder, he doesn’t know which. His heart thuds hard enough to hurt, and then James reaches for his hand, and the rush of blood in his ears turns into a roar.

“How about that,” James says, mirroring the kiss, firm, deliberate, perfect. “I think I just did.”


End file.
